


If Only

by sunflowersmile



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: 65th Hunger Games, 75th Hunger Games, District 13 (Hunger Games), District 4 (Hunger Games), F/M, One Shot, i tried to make it hopeful at the end but it kind of made me sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25177537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowersmile/pseuds/sunflowersmile
Summary: Annie dreams of a world without the Games, without Snow, without a life full of constant fear. Finnick relives his memories while he wonders, if only this were different.
Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	If Only

**Author's Note:**

> This was just an idea I had and it definitely hasn't turned out the way I originally imagined (I still think it turned out okay!), but I hope you enjoy it! This is not a complementary piece to my other work (even though they're both about Finnick and Annie-I just love them so much!), Where the Sun Meets the Sea, but please give it a read if you like my work! <3

“Nightmare or dream?” Finnick asks Annie, looking down at his beautiful love, tucked against him. Annie moves closer to him and looks up into his eyes. He sees hesitation and a small seed of worry starts to worm its way into his mind. _Did she have another nightmare about the Games? Was it one about Mags?_

“I had a dream,” she says slowly. “Everything was different.” Annie closes her eyes, imagining the world her mind had created. To her it felt so real, as if all of it really happened—in some other life. In some other universe.

“Different how?” Finnick asks, reaching for her hand. Annie pulls his hand onto her lap and traces the lines etched into his palm. Traces the scars faded by time and Capitol healing.

“There weren’t any Games. Our lives were different. Simpler. Even Mags was there.” Her voice catches and she takes a shaky breath.

Mags sacrificed herself in the Arena to save the Mockingjay. Annie remembers it all so clearly, yet it feels so foggy. 

* * *

She remembers the days of floating in and out of sleep, either feeling everything all at once or feeling complete numbness—with only a vague sense of what she thought should be happening. Everything hurt that first day. The day she watched as Mags walked into the fog. The day one of her nightmares became reality.

The ache in her chest was so big she would have done anything to make it go away, but she stayed rooted to the ground in her living room, stuck—trapped by her thoughts.

The canon had boomed and everything else felt so silent. It was fitting. The world should not go on without Mags in it.

But it did.

The days bled into each other—the screen blurring as Annie fell into a strange slumber every once in awhile. Someone came over and made her eat, spooning food into her mouth—but she didn’t taste anything. Someone made her drink water, pressing a cold glass of water into her hands—yet her mouth was still dry. She barely moved from her spot on the floor, a soft afghan wrapped around her shoulders.

When the memories hit her, she puts it in a box. Mags had made the afghan, knitted the soft blues and greens together to create a little replica of the ocean—right there on the blanket. Mags is gone now, though, and the memories hurt too much.

Some days it’s just easier to push them away. Put them in a box, where they don’t hurt as much.

Annie’s eyes were tired and blurry from staring at the screen for too long, but she knew she wasn’t imagining things when the screen blacked out. She checked on the signal, but everything was fine. The screen continued to stay black. Where Finnick had once been there was now only darkness.

Annie’s mind refocuses for a split second and she feels in control for a moment. Finnick. _Finnick._

_“_ _Finnick! "_

He was gone. She couldn’t reach him. Annie tried, she really did, with her mind—with her constant screaming, whether it was all in her head or through her mouth. But it was no use. He was gone.

Someone knocked on the door. Every ounce of hope and love for Finnick burst through her chest and a smile bloomed on her face. It must be Finnick. He wasn’t gone after all. He was right here, all along.

Then she saw the white uniforms of the Peacekeepers and realized that Finnick wasn’t here. Realized that Finnick might not come home to her.

After all, Mags was gone, so what was keeping him here?

They dragged her away, and she screamed so loud the birds flew away from their perch in the trees. The world around her—her world, _her_ home—was burning. Everything was on fire. Her throat ached so much and was raw from screaming, but her vision was so very red—so all she could do was scream.

Everything was burning and red and bloody and none of it was stopping. She couldn’t see her ocean, she couldn’t see Finnick and Mags was gone and _she was all alone._ And everything was red.

She was in the Arena, again, when they pulled her onto the train. She was watching her district partner’s head get chopped off. Watching the blood that stained everything. It was all over her hands again and it wouldn’t come off. _It wouldn’t wash away._ It was spreading from her hands, dripping onto the ground— _and she couldn’t get it off._ Couldn’t make the red stop from spreading everywhere.

On the train, she screamed and screamed and screamed but nobody heard a thing.

Nobody that cared, at least.

* * *

“She’s still with us,” Finnick reminds her, gently pulling Annie back into reality. She gets lost sometimes, and he knows that his voice is always able to bring her back. Like the tide, she always comes back to him.

“I know, but it hurt all over again. It felt like all of it really happened, but then I woke up and realized it was all just a dream. Realized that she really was gone, and never coming back.” Silently, Annie wishes she could get up the courage to ask him, ask Finnick—if he ever wished it were different. If only none of this had happened—if only they lived in a safe world.

“We’ll find her again. If this means anything, it’s a reminder that we’ll always find each other—no matter what universe. And no matter what, Mags will never leave us—not truly,” Finnick says, then more softly, “I do wonder sometimes, though. If only it were like that. If only it were different.” He holds Annie close to him. She relaxes a little, realizing that for this moment, she’s safe.

That in this moment—and every moment, she remembers—Finnick understands her. He understands her fear, her nightmares, her hopes, her ever-constant terror of the Arena—even the ghosts that haunt her. He understands her wish for a safe world. A different world.

Her head is against his chest, and Annie can hear his heartbeat—almost in sync with her own. Beat after beat, her fear is slowly chased away by Finnick’s presence. By his arms holding her tight.

Before Annie responds to Finnick’s words, he imagines a million different ways the world could be different. He’s dragged through memory after memory, reliving it all and imagining how it would be different— _if only._

* * *

If only Finnick hadn’t been Reaped. If only some other poor boy’s name had been pulled out of the bowl.

He remembers the day his life changed. And not for the better.

The day was unusually hot for a summer day and everybody was sweating in their nice clothes. Finnick’s mother had made him wear a nice suit, even though the sleeves were too short and the collar itched. Finnick remembers the fly that was zooming around over the heads of the children. The buzzing sound that flitted near his ear while he waited, and his attempts to concentrate on the mayor up front, and not to swat at it—to make it go away.

Finnick was 14 years old and couldn’t wait to go back home. He’d made plans for the afternoon with his friends to go fishing down at the harbor—and then later in the evening they would all have full stomachs at the festival that celebrated all the children left untouched by the Games.

Or so they said. They ignored the two families that are left forgotten at home, their child ripped from them—their child who will most likely be dead within the next week.

But Finnick didn’t think that would be him. He had plans, he would see his friends—and all of them would be safe for another year.

He didn’t recognize the name of the girl called—but District Four is pretty big, so it’s understandable. Much to his despair, butterflies of nerves and worry begin to fly around frantically in his stomach. He shouldn’t be worried, he’ll be safe. He always is.

Finnick held his breath as he watched the hand of District Four’s escort move around in the bowl, finally pulling out a small slip of plain, white paper. A piece of paper that determined his fate.

If only it hadn’t been Finnick. If only it had been some other boy, with some other life.

But it was.

“Finnick Odair! Come on up, darling, don’t be scared!” But he was scared. On the inside, at least.

On the outside, he grinned and sauntered up onto the stage—already showing off his easy-going persona. The persona that would become part of him. The smile he would put on for the Capitol, the extravagance he would portray—the perfect life of a Victor. The perfect puppet for Snow.

If he hadn’t been so confident, so easy with the audience. If only he had been a little more scared, a little less like the older Careers. If only they could have seen him for the child he was, only 14 years old.

But they didn’t, and they made him kill. Made him murder innocent children.

* * *

If only he had died in that arena. If only he hadn't convinced the Careers to let him join them. If only he had never been given that trident. If only he had never learned how to set traps. If only he had never chosen to take that first life.

The Careers thought he was too young, too inexperienced, too naïve. They thought he was weak because he was young—so they tested him, to see if he had any guts.

They made him murder the first tribute they found during their killing tirade. He was a small boy, from one of the outer districts, by the looks of it.

Finnick was handed a spear and told to enjoy it. Enjoy the feeling of taking someone else’s life.

If only he could have taken his own.

But he used that spear and watched as the life drained from the boy’s eyes. Listened as his screams died the instant the metal tip pierced his skin. Watched as the Careers clapped and laughed over how pathetic they thought the dead boy was.

If only he hadn’t killed that boy. If only the Careers had killed him instead.

But, like always, it had happened. Even while in the Arena, Finnick was a puppet to President Snow.

“What use has he got for a trident?”

“He’ll never be able to use it properly—he won’t know any techniques!”

“Even I haven’t started training with one yet.”

Their voices haunt Finnick as he methodically sets a trap—a net that would catch a tribute and hang them upside down. He doesn’t like killing—but he doesn’t want to die.

If only he’d had less of a will to live. If only he’d know less about survival skills. If only he’d know more about the Arena—about President Snow. If only he’s known that it would be better if he died in the Arena.

* * *

If only Snow had seen him as a child and not a whore. If only he hadn’t been forced into prostitution the day he turned 16.

President Snow had raised him to be the perfect Victor ever since he stepped out of that Arena. He pampered him and told him, _“You’re safe now, everything is fine. You can have anything you want, you’re a Victor!”_

Snow was a snake, but he didn’t strike immediately. He waited for the perfect moment, pretending to be an innocent creature who cares about you and doesn’t want you to be harmed. Acting like he wants to protect you. But Snow has years of practice and a practiced double-face act—so Finnick was no match for him. And, as Finnick would later find out, poison helped to solve a lot of his problems.

The night of Finnick’s birthday party in the Capitol, Snow told him he had some people that he wanted to introduce to Finnick.

None of the other Victors had warned Finnick. Mags had yearned to protect him, to keep him safe for one more year, to let him be aware of the situation—but the other Victors kept her from telling him. They kept her from giving him a warning about the years to come—about the rest of his life.

“It’ll be okay,” Snow promised with a smile. “They’re nice people,” he said, his mouth full of lies.

All of it. Lies. The promises of happiness. Lies. The promise of your heart’s desire. Lies—you aren’t allowed to desire anything except for what Snow wants you to. You aren’t in control of your life anymore.

Finnick tried to refuse, and that’s where he made his first mistake. Where he saw Snow for the person he really is, for the snake he becomes when something doesn’t go his way.

You see, Victor’s can’t refuse anything. Snow pretends to give them choices, but they aren’t given an opinion.

Finnick lost his father, first, because he tried to say no to Snow.

His mother and siblings would die later, too, because of him.

He thought after a couple months, Snow and his clients would have enough. That he’d be given a chance to go home and stay there until he was needed to mentor.

So, Snow pretended to comply. Played up the act of a concerned adult. Let him go home to see his family.

Finnick did get to see his family. Except they were in a casket and Finnick was still alive. A survivor, still left on this Earth—all alone.

After the funeral, the Victor who mentored him came up to him and offered him a home. She said her name was Mags. Finnick went to her house and drank tea and ate cookies and let Mags hold him in her arms. Only she knew how much he cried after the last faces of his family were buried in the ground, their bodies cold and stiff.

Mags explained that Snow would always have his way—no matter how hard you tried. If you became a threat, you would be eliminated. If you tried to play his game—then he’d change the rules.

There’s no way to win with Snow.

If only there was. If only Finnick wasn’t forced to go along with all of it.

* * *

If only they hadn’t met on that fated day by the beach.

If only Finnick hadn’t been walking that way and remembered the little girl from his childhood. If only he hadn’t wanted to meet her again, _to love her._

If only the words of a greeting hadn’t touched his lips, and they passed by each other—oblivious that each of their lives would be a little less painful because of a missed conversation.

If only there was a world where they never met—or never rekindled their childhood friendship. 

_But would that have been any better?_

It would have kept Annie safe.

* * *

If only Finnick had never joined District 13. If only he had refused on the day a decision was put in front of him. An offer made. If only Annie had never been taken to the Capitol. Because of the actions of Katniss Everdeen and District Thirteen. Because of _Finnick’s_ actions.

“We’re giving you a choice, but if you don’t join us—then the rest of the world will move on into a full-blown revolution while you’re still here. We can’t promise your safety if you join, but we can promise that we’ll try our best. And that’s already more than what Snow is doing.”

Neither spoke for a moment—Finnick was being given time to make a decision, but he had no idea how to respond. The country would turn to revolution again, no doubt about it. But would he choose to aid them? Aid this forgotten District? Should he help them? Is it a lost cause? Will anything actually change?

Would he be on the right side of history? Does that even matter? Isn’t the right side of history sometimes different from the right side of a war? Doesn’t history get it wrong sometimes?

Wasn’t history written by the Victors of the war?

Finnick sat deliberating, taking small sips from his mug. Halfway through making up his mind—he was reminded of Annie and the safe world that they always dreamed about. The safe place that only ever existed when they were in each other’s arms.

“I’ll join, on one condition.”

“What is it?”

“Annie is kept safe. During the Quell—if things get bad, you’ll get her out of District Four and into Thirteen. You’ll protect her.”

“Finnick—you know we can’t make promises like that. If Snow thinks that Annie knows anything, he’ll—”

“I know,” Finnick said, cutting off the sentence. “I know,” he said more quietly, more tired than before. Finnick knows everything Snow will do to someone he loves. Finnick now knows that Snow has no limits. “But you can try your best, right?” He offered a small smile and got a sentence in return. A sentence that gave him a small spark of hope.

“We’ll certainly do everything we can to keep her safe.”

If only that were true. If only their best had been good enough.

* * *

If only Annie hadn’t been taken into the Capitol. If only she had never been used against him.

Finnick reminds himself that it’s all a game. Everything Snow does is a game. All of it is one never-ending circle of death and backstabbing and treachery.

Because if Annie had never been taken to the Capitol—then that meant District Thirteen had successfully rescued her. That meant that maybe they would have had more success rescuing _all_ of the Victors from the Arena.

It could have meant that Peeta was never turned into a weapon by the Capitol. That he was taken safely to District 13. It could have meant that Johanna was safe—that she was never tortured by water so the Capitol could gain rebel intelligence.

If only it could have been true.

But all of it could have stayed the same—or been completely different.

_Will we ever truly know?_

If Annie had never been taken to the Capitol, then maybe she never fell in love with Finnick.

And we’re back at the beginning of this endless circle. Back at the spark that made Annie Cresta and Finnick Odair fall in love.

Would anything ever really be different?

Or was their fates written in the stars? Were they meant to be together, forever and always?

* * *

Would anything have changed?

If only they hadn’t kissed that night, for the whole sky to see.

Finnick asked Annie, _“Do you really want this?”_ He had blood on his hands and darkness on his soul. He had been a puppet for most of his life. He had no control, but he still fell in love with Annie. Snow pulled the strings—but nothing could have stopped their love.

If only something had.

But Annie whispered back to him and didn’t stop their blossoming love. _“I do. I want you.”_ And she meant it. She wanted all of him. She cared about his scars, but not in vanity. Annie wanted to know how Finnick got each one and what the story was behind it. She wanted to hold him as he cried over memories of playing in the ocean with his friends, swinging from tree branches with his father watching below him.

They kissed, standing in the ocean, under the night sky. They kissed, letting the stars see their love. Letting the sunset shine on their faces. Letting the whole world know that they were in control of their lives. They kissed, under the stars, with the sea crashing at their feet—and everything seemed to align. For just a moment, anyone could understand why these two lovers wanted to be together so desperately.

But the thought is still there, inside their minds. 

_If only they hadn’t fallen in love._

But they did. They fell in love and fate reminded them all too many times that they were meant to be together. Even death could not separate them. They were the sun and the sea, and nothing could keep them apart. Nothing could stop them from loving each other.

* * *

Annie’s voice is softer than a whisper, but Finnick can hear it as clearly as if she were shouting.

“If only.”

With those two words, all of Finnick's doubts are washed away. Pulled away by the tide, taken back to the dark corners of his mind.

It will be Annie and Finnick forever. They’re together now, and that’s what matters. His thoughts are left to stay there, just becoming _what ifs_ and _maybes_ _._ Because all of it _has_ happened and they can’t go back in time. They can’t change what has been done.

They can only hope for a better tomorrow.


End file.
